Silent Night
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: I couldn't possibly have strep throat. - SH
1. I Couldn't Possible Have Strep - SH

**Silent Night**

The flat was quiet.

John sat up rather abruptly.

The flat was quiet.

The flat was never quiet, especially not at ten in the morning.

John pushed the duvet off, fighting with the blankets for a few seconds before his bare feet hit the floor. The hardwood floor was cold.

"Sherlock?" he called, peering towards the sitting room as he descended the stairs.

Sherlock wasn't in the sitting room. Sherlock wasn't in the kitchen. His bedroom door was shut tightly, which wasn't uncommon, but the absence of Sherlock in the rest of the house meant that Sherlock was probably in his room. Which _was_ uncommon.

"Sherlock?" John let his knuckles fall lightly against Sherlock's bedroom door. "Are you awake...?"

Sherlock had been working on an experiment last night when John had gone to bed. It wasn't case-related, but, at the same time, Sherlock didn't usually sleep if he was working on an experiment, either.

John carefully pushed Sherlock's bedroom door open, looking automatically towards the bed.

Sherlock was sprawled out in bed, his arm drawn over his eyes. He didn't look comfortable, let alone asleep.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock removed his arm slightly, peering at John over his arm. He met John's gaze for that moment before replacing his arm.

"What's wrong?" John asked immediately, stepping across the room. "What's the matter?"

Sherlock didn't respond.

"Sherlock, tell me what's the matter," John said, staring down at the unmoving form of his best friend. Sherlock remained resolutely silent.

John sighed heavily. Sherlock had to do this, didn't he? There was something clearly wrong with him, but even now, he wouldn't say what was wrong with him. John didn't see why he just didn't admit it; they all got under the weather occasionally. Even Sherlock Holmes.

Just then, John heard his text alert chime from his phone down the hall.

He looked at Sherlock for another annoyed moment before striding from the room. When he found his mobile lodged in behind the Union Jack pillow, he found the text message was from Sherlock. John was about to be rightfully annoyed when he opened the message.

_Throat hurts._  
_- S_

John blinked before trudging back to Sherlock's bedroom.

"Your throat hurts?"

Sherlock removed his arm from his eyes to give John one of his spectacularly annoyed looks.

"Do you have a cold? Fever?" John moved forward, pressing his hand against Sherlock's forehead. It was warm. John was going to assume that his forehead was warm in general, not just from Sherlock having his sleeve over it. "Okay, you have a fever. What else?"

He waited painstakingly as Sherlock reached for his phone, tapping out a message.

_Nothing. My throat hurt earlier, so I drank some tea, but it's gotten worse._

"You can't talk at all?" John asked, glancing up from his phone.

_No. Obviously._

"Well, erm, let me take your temperature and then I'll make you some tea with honey. Hang on." He frowned slightly before shaking his head, stepping through to the bathroom. He managed to find the thermometer lodged between the bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a bottle of mouthwash that wasn't mouthwash any longer.

He grabbed the peroxide and sterilized the thermometer, rinsing it off thoroughly before heading back to the bedroom.

"Okay. Take your temperature. I'll make some tea." He handed the thermometer to Sherlock.

Sherlock took it, looking miserable. Once he had placed it in his mouth, he picked up his phone again, his fingers flying over the keyboard.

_Tea won't help. I can't swallow._

John frowned. "Wait, you can't swallow?"

_Well, I CAN swallow, but, seeing as how it feels like swallowing glass shards, I simply choose not to._

John's expression didn't change as he took the thermometer from Sherlock's mouth, checking the reading. Thirty-seven point nine. A low grade fever, but a fever nonetheless.

He looked back at Sherlock. "Do you have a cough?"

_No._

"Sherlock..." John started. "You aren't going to like this, but..."

Text chime.

_Just tell me._

"It sounds like strep throat."

Sherlock shot him a disgusted look.

_I wouldn't have strep throat._

"It's not a matter of whether or not you would, because I think you do."

_I most certainly do not._

"Sorry, could you speak up? I couldn't hear you," John replied humourlessly, staring at Sherlock. Rude, yes, but it would take all of John's will to even make Sherlock admit that he was sick to begin with.

_Witty, John. Extremely so._

"You're going to need to go to the hospital." Sherlock rolled his eyes, looking away. "No, Sherlock, I'm serious! You need to have a throat culture because, if it is strep, you're going to need antibiotics. Now, I'm going to make you some tea with honey, which may help, if you decide you can drink it."

Before Sherlock could much as give him a depraving look, John turned and walked out of Sherlock's bedroom.

* * *

**And, here I am, sitting, for the third day, with what a nurse phone-consultation-possible-diagnosed as maybe-strep or what a doctor phone-consultation-possible-diagnosed as a sort of throat virus. Either way, it's very, very annoying and there's, apparently, nothing to be done. Joy. Nonetheless, I was interested to find no results for strep when I searched it via Sherlock's category here on fanfiction, which doesn't mean it's not out there, but it's just not in a description... Had to experiment with it.**

**Follows and favs are like snow, but reviews are like Christmas. [Which I am, clearly, in a very Christmas-y mood.] Thanks!**


	2. Clinic Visit

**Chapter Two**

_John_

_No_

_Listen to me_

_I'm not going to the hospital_

"_Yes_, you are, Sherlock!" John exclaimed irritably, grabbing the phone out of Sherlock's hand. Sherlock had started firing off rapid texts when John had mentioned the hospital again, not even pausing for punctuation. "You need to get a throat culture," John said, repeating earlier words from before. "Why am I even saying this? You probably already know all of it. Get up, get dressed, and we can get there and get back in a half hour."

Sherlock shook his head resolutely, although he looked a little pale with the motion.

The tea that John had made him was sitting resolutely on the nightstand. Sherlock had taken a few careful drinks before closing his eyes, fumbling to place the mug onto the nightstand. John had hastened to help, although ready to chastise Sherlock for not drinking it (the honey could help!). That was when Sherlock reopened his eyes and John noted the pain clearly visible in those ever-keen orbs.

John had never had strep. He didn't want it, either, if the cases he'd treated and the symptoms he'd heard of were at all accurate. And the sheer pain and discomfort behind it _must_ be true, if it caused that haunted look in Sherlock's eyes.

But, his stubbornness won out. Despite the pain that Sherlock had described as swallowing glass, he refused to get out of bed to actually go get something that could help.

"Sherlock, it's not going to go away on its own. You need medicine, and the only way you're going to get it is by going to the clinic."

Sherlock looked pointedly at his mobile, now in John's hands. John handed it over with a sigh.

_Can't you just get it for me WITHOUT this unnecessary fumbling about?_

John read the text with almost a sense of indignation. "No, Sherlock, I can't."

_You're a doctor._

"I am, but I can't just get prescriptions for no reason!"

Sherlock looked at him critically.

_Sarah could get it for you._

"She could, except for the fact that _I don't have strep_," John stressed. "Face it: you're going to have to go to the hospital. Now, do you want to sit there and continue to suffer or shall we attempt to nip it in the bud while it's in its adolescence?"

Sherlock sighed heavily through his nose. His attention went back to his phone.

John waited impatiently for the incoming text.

_I don't want to go out, John. I feel ill._

The sheer fact that Sherlock was admitting that at all made John take a careful breath in an attempt to calm himself down. He was worked up over Sherlock's reluctance to work with him, but Sherlock was still hurting, under that mask that he was so insistent on wearing.

"You feel ill because you are ill. It's not going to get better without antibiotics. I can give you paracetamol, but it's not going to help your throat."

Sherlock watched him for a moment, clearly trying to see if there was a loophole, some way around actually getting out of bed and going to the clinic. But, then he sighed, quietly, his shoulders seeming to droop as his poorly-kept facade melted even further.

_Ten minutes._

John smiled slightly. "Thank you."

* * *

After twenty minutes total that consisted of a very pale Sherlock stumbling after John to the awaiting cab and a very quiet, uncomfortable ride to the clinic, they were seated in the waiting room.

Perhaps 'seated' wasn't the correct term. _John_ was seated, absently thumbing through a month old copy of _Harper's Bazaar_. Sherlock, however, was standing at the window, staring outside as he tried to maintain a semblance of normalcy.

When the nurse called Sherlock back, John accompanied him. It didn't take long for the resulting text to come through.

_Must you accompany me?_

"Yes, I must, because, knowing you, you'll try to sneak off or insult the doctors, neither of which I particularly want you doing," he replied absently, nodding a greeting to the receptionist.

"So, Mr. Holmes is ill, hm?" greeted their doctor, Dr. Drew Talcott. He was young man, barely in his thirties and looking very much like he didn't know much about anything. In truth, he was one of the best doctors on staff.

Sherlock gave Dr. Talcott a loathing glance.

John smiled reassuringly. "He's got strep, as far as I can tell. He needs a throat culture, though, which I couldn't do at home."

"Okay." Dr. Talcott looked at Sherlock. "Are you experiencing a cough?"

"He isn't," John cut in. Dr. Talcott looked at him. "He can't talk," John explained. "Or rather, he isn't compelled to..."

"Ah. Severe throat pain, then?"

"Yes."

"And you said he has a low grade fever?"

"Yeah, almost thirty-eight." John glanced briefly at Sherlock, who was leaning against the wall heavily and looking at the ceiling. "I mean, it's pretty high up there on the point system. I haven't shined a light down his throat, but I'm pretty sure it's strep."

Dr. Talcott nodded before turning back to Sherlock. "Well, since John has everything else in his capable hands, let me just take a look at your throat and get that culture. Have a seat, if you would."

Sherlock looked very much like he _wouldn't_, but, after giving John another annoyed look, sank onto the examination seat.

"Open up and say 'ahh'. I want to get a look first of all."

John's phone chimed.

_I decided that I don't need antibiotics._

John laughed slightly, despite himself. "Just say 'ahh', Sherlock."

After seeming to realize his fate, Sherlock closed his eyes and did as told. John noted that the consulting detective's fingers were knitted tightly around the edge of his coat and briefly wondered how severe the pain really was.

"Oh, yes. It looks very much like strep to me, Mr. Holmes. We'll just get that swabbed down and sent to the lab." Dr. Talcott moved away from Sherlock, grabbing the cotton swabs prepared for the culture. "Same as before. Open wide, say 'ahh'."

The only difference this go-round was Sherlock raised his hand to plug his nose and, despite that, still managed to cough, splutter, and gag during the procedure.

John smiled faintly, condescendingly, when Sherlock finally looked his way.

"I know. Strep tests aren't fun," John said.

Sherlock seemed to hunch further into his coat and looked away again.

"Give us about five minutes and we'll know for sure. Be back shortly," Dr. Talcott said, stepping out of the room.

The silence that followed the resounding _click_ of the door was enough to deafen John.

"So... are you feeling worse, then? Overlooking the strep test..."

_I'm dying, John._

"I wouldn't let that happen," John responded, hoping his voice hit the correct level of humour. He knew Sherlock wasn't serious, and he hadn't wanted to answer so seriously, either, but... he wouldn't let that happen. He just wouldn't.

_This is me, silently groaning at this idiocy._

"Well, at least it's silent." At Sherlock wincing not a half second later, John added: "Look, the strep test will be back soon, they'll prescribe antibiotics and you can go back home and sleep. I know it's rough right now, but the antibiotics will help."

_Have you ever had strep._

"No, I haven't-"

_Then don't talk._

John huffed and subsided back into silence.

"Yep, you're right, chaps," Dr. Talcott said upon returning to the room not three minutes later. "It's strep."

Sherlock closed his eyes again and John was about to tell Drew to tone down his level of cheerfulness, but Dr. Talcott continued on without a beat. "I've prescribed you some antibiotics; you'll need to get those filled and take as directed. As for the sore throat, the medication will help, but you can always drink warm tea with honey. Stick to soft foods." Dr. Talcott looked at John. "I'm correct in assuming you know how to take care of him?"

"Yeah. Yes, there's probably no else who can," John replied, glancing towards Sherlock again.

Sherlock reopened his eyes and grabbed his phone from his lap.

_You can't take care of me._

John frowned. "I find that offensive, Sherlock."

_I don't doubt your medical training. It's just that no one takes care of me. It just doesn't happen._

"Yes, you don't even take care of yourself."

"Uhmm..." Dr. Talcott was standing there, looking between them as John spoke and Sherlock typed.

"Oh, sorry," John said, looking at him. "We'll be on our way. Thanks for your help, Drew. Come on, Sherlock."

Sherlock slid off the table, striding ahead and wrenching the door open. He walked out without another word.

Drew looked at John. "Is he usually so..."

"Pushy?" John supplied. "Yeah."

"No, I meant..."

"Antisocial and rude? That's normal."

Drew stared at him for a moment before laughing. "Well, you seem to be used to it."

John smiled. "I've gotten used to it."

Text chime.

_Shall I just go home on my own, or will you be joining me anytime soon?_

John looked back up at Drew. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

* * *

**The name Talcott was inspired by Edmund Talbot... because I was watching _To the End of the Earth_ and Ben's character is entirely too cute. And... quite cute in the beginning when he's ill... Anyway.**

**Glad that you guys like the story so far! Keep the reviews coming! Thanks!**


	3. Pharmacy Conversations

**Chapter Three**

"Do you wanna go home or are you okay to wait at Boots with me?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"That doesn't tell me anything."

_Just go to the pharmacy._

"Are you sure you're going to be okay? It'll be about ten, fifteen minutes." John looked closer at Sherlock. "I don't like the idea of you running around with a fever..."

_I'm not going to be running around. I'll just... sit._

John raised his eyebrows. "Now you're making me really think I should get you home."

_It's only ten minutes ago. I'll be fine._

_Besides, it's on our way home._

John sniffed and leaned back in his seat. "Boots Pharmacy," he said to the cabbie. And then to Sherlock: "Don't complain to me when you feel ill while standing there".

Sherlock sank a little lower in his seat.

The cab ride was complete silence, not that that hadn't happened before. If Sherlock was thinking, or if he was in a mood, he wouldn't talk. So, John was okay with the silence, asides from the fact that Sherlock didn't so much as twitch. That part made him a little uneasy.

"Are you sure you don't want to just go on home?"

Sherlock ignored John's question and opened the cab door, stepping out.

"Fine, then."

After a quick nip to the counter, John found out that the prescription would need another ten minutes. Upon figuring this out, John gripped the shoulders of the consulting detective and guided him to a chair.

"Sit."

Sherlock obliged.

John frowned and reached out, pressing his hand against Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock seemed to huff and, reopening his closed eyes, leaned out of John's reach.

_Stop it._

"You're warmer than before."

_I don't care._

"Well, _I _do," John said, taking a seat next to Sherlock.

He knew he ought to be keeping his distance from Sherlock, seeing as how strep throat was very contagious before the first twenty-four hours of antibiotics. But, he couldn't bring himself to leave his patient, much less when it was Sherlock.

Besides, he'd already been introduced the bacteria already, so he figured it was a lost cause to worry about it. He'd just wash his hands thoroughly, later. Try to de-germ-ify.

Sherlock sank lower in the seat.

John looked at him. "Are you feeling worse?"

Sherlock sighed heavily, picking his phone up out of his lap.

_Why don't you stop talking to me_

"Because, I'm your doctor and I want to know what's happening."

_Dull_

John frowned. "You're tired."

_What gave you that impression?_

"You're feeling worse than you were. I'm assuming that's because your fever's gone up."

_Brilliant John_

"You're not using proper grammar in your texting, so I know something's different," John said, looking back towards the counter.

_Headache._

"That can happen. Anything else?"

_Just my throat._

_Although I'm tired._

_Which is... annoying._

"You're ill, Sherlock. It's to be expected."

_You asked me what was wrong with me._

"Fair enough," John said, sighing heavily as he glanced at his watch again. "You know, what I can't figure out is where you picked up strep from. You haven't even had a case in a week."

_Probably since you sent me to the store on Tuesday._

"Well, if you wouldn't use all of the baking soda on the human liver in the fridge..." An older lady sitting next to John looked up at him, giving him a stunned look. John blinked, smiled wanly, before looking back to Sherlock. "You know, I just realized how one-sided this conversation seems to everyone else."

_So?_

"Oh, nevermind, Mr. Don't Care About What People Think..." John said, crossing his arms.

_Stop talking to me and it'll solve the problem._

"Yeah, right..." John muttered. "I'll just do that..."

Thankfully, their silence couldn't last for long, as the prescription was filled soon thereafter. Thankfully. Because when Sherlock stumbled when he got to his feet, it made John even more anxious to get the sick detective home.

"Let's go home, shall we?"

Sherlock looked at him miserably for a moment before nodding and striding ahead.

* * *

**I took John's advice to Sherlock and actually went to the clinic myself. And, irony abounds, I have strep. The nice thing? I now have doctor-issued information on strep. It helps with writing this story! /sigh **

**Anyway, reviews are lovely and pretty and all things glittery. Antibiotics and more doctor!John in the next chapter. Along with vulnerable(ish)!Sherlock. Fun times. Thanks!**


	4. Not Much Cop, This Silent Sherlock Lark

Sherlock had promptly fallen asleep upon their rearrival at the flat; at least, right after John made sure that Sherlock got his first dose of his antibiotic down.

John had skipped out on Sherlock for a brief time, then, quickly nipping out to Tesco's to do a bit of light shopping. They didn't have anything that would be of use to Sherlock at the flat, so shopping had seemed like a good idea.

However, when he got back, found Sherlock awake and clearly feeling worse, he regretted the extra few minutes he'd spent wondering if Sherlock liked cherry or grape ice lollies.

"What's changed?" he asked, hovering next to Sherlock's bed.

Sherlock was pale, he was sweating, and John could see small tremors moving through Sherlock's body. His eyes were squeezed shut, his breathing controlled.

"Sherlock," John repeated, once again placing his hand on Sherlock's forehead. It didn't seem like his fever had gone up, but until John took his temperature, he couldn't be too sure. "Sherlock, tell me."

"Stomach..." Sherlock whispered, not opening his eyes. His voice was hoarse and scratchy, but it made John realize just how reassuring it was to hear his best friend speak. Any other day, John would have been pleased to have a moment of silence. Now, not so much.

"Your stomach hurts?"

Sherlock nodded slightly.

"Did it hurt before taking the medicine?"

Sherlock didn't respond.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock's arm snuck from under the blankets, fumbling for his phone on the nightstand. John waited anxiously as Sherlock squinted at the screen, tapping out a message.

The absence of nodding means no, John. Honestly.

"Well, sorry. I can't read your mind." John placed his phone on Sherlock's nightstand, grabbing the thermometer. "Let me get your temperature again. Your upset stomach is probably just a reaction to the antibiotics, but let me know if it gets any worse."

Sherlock just sighed shakily through his nose.

The thermometer read thirty-eight point four. It had gone up, but it wasn't going up rapidly, so that was good.

"I can't do much about your upset stomach... I suppose I could get you some yoghurt or something. I got ice lollies."

Sherlock waved his hand slightly.

"You need to eat, Sherlock." When he received no reply, he continued with "I know you feel sick now, but you need to eat. Your stomach is probably upset _because_ you didn't eat anything."

Sherlock only shivered in response, tucking his head further into the blankets.

John sighed. "Just sleep... You'll feel better soon."

Sherlock didn't respond once again.

Sherlock ended up sleeping through most of the day. He was in and out of consciousness, and when he was awake, John made sure to get him to drink water, tea, anything.

As John checked up on him this time, he found Sherlock in the same position, head tucked under the blankets, curled up tightly. He was still shivering; John could still see Sherlock's hair trembling. All of the brilliance and dedication had melted from his face, even the little lines that seemed to be a permanent fixture on Sherlock's face. He looked calm. He looked incredibly... vulnerable.

John was reminded of the time, at the pool where Carl Powers had been murdered, when Sherlock was made to think that John was indeed Moriarty. The look on Sherlock's face had been so helpless, so childlike, so heartbreaking, especially when John realized, in that moment, that Sherlock had definitively come to trust him.

John laid his hand on Sherlock's forehead, transferring it to the detective's cheek afterwards. He was still warm. That worried John. He curled his fingers carefully around the duvet, edging it away from Sherlock's head.

No more than had John moved it the slightest amount, Sherlock's eyes snapped open.

"Oh, hey... Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you..."

Sherlock blinked slowly, watching him.

There was that inkling of concern again, coursing through John's veins. It was like a rush of adrenaline, like those old days where John wasn't sure if a wounded soldier would live or die.

"What's wrong?"

Sherlock only closed his eyes again.

John frowned. "You're not going to tell me again? I'm just trying to help." When Sherlock didn't respond, didn't so much breathe heavily in response, John sighed. "Fine. I'll be in the sitting room if you need me."

John had just turned to walk back out when Sherlock when the consulting detective made a sort of huff-groan noise.

John turned back at him, raising his eyebrows. "Yes?"

The look in Sherlock's eyes was purely miserable.

"Is it your stomach?"

Sherlock blinked.

"What, is this blink once for yes, blink twice for no?" John asked somewhat sarcastically. John's sarcasm melted away when Sherlock blinked once, just once, very prominently. "Okay, so it is. So, your stomach?"

Sherlock blinked again.

"It still hurts?"

Sherlock paused, before blinking twice.

"Okay, erm... Hungry?"

Sherlock frowned and blinked twice, quickly, seeming to pale even more than he had been.

"Oh! Going to be sick?"

Sherlock blinked... three times.

"What the hell does three blinks mean? Maybe?"

Sherlock blinked.

"Okay, so you're going to maybe be sick," John said, feeling slightly absurd. "You want the bin, then, I'm assuming. You don't look like you're going to be able to make it to the toilet." He crossed the room, grabbing the bin from the corner and placing it beside Sherlock's bed. "You're welcome."

Sherlock gave him a sour look.

"You know, I think I rather like this silent Sherlock," John joked, even though he really didn't care for it a lot.

Sherlock gave him one of his spectacularly annoyed looks.

"Text me when you stop being nauseous. You need to eat."

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly before scrambling up, grabbing the bin quickly before he was violently sick.

John watched him for a short moment.

"Text me when you stop vomiting."

* * *

**Poor little Lockie. **

**Thoughts? Thanks for reading!**


	5. Just Ask Me!

**Chapter Five**

_John._

John glanced at his phone, sighing heavily. He had been wondering how long it was going to take Sherlock to ask for help. (Even though he still wasn't asking...)

_What do you need? _he typed back, pushing himself up from his chair.

_Tea?_

The fact that Sherlock was asking for tea was a good sign. He'd obviously stopped vomiting- which John already knew, because he _had_ been checking on him, and Sherlock had fallen asleep after being sick- and he had to be feeling less nauseous for him to ask for tea.

"Give me a second!" he called down the hall, putting the kettle on.

He grabbed the teapot and glanced into it. There didn't seem to be anything growing on the inside, but he washing it out quickly all the same. By the time that he was drying the exterior off, the water had boiled.

Sighing and making the quick decision that, since he had just washed the teapot with hot water, it probably wouldn't combust from the boiling water, he set the teapot down and poured the boiling water into it. It, thankfully, did not combust.

He measured out the tea leaves, dumping it into the teapot and set the lid lightly on the top. He grabbed two teacups from the cabinet, giving them a quick rinse-out. He dislodged the sugar and pulled out the milk (pleased to find that they had milk at all). He also grabbed the jar of honey from the cabinet.

By this time, the tea had steeped, and he poured two cups: one for himself and one for Sherlock. To his own, he added two sugars and a dash of milk. To Sherlock's, he added a generous amount of honey in substitution for the sugar, topping it off with the milk.

He took a quick sip of his before heading back to Sherlock's bedroom. "Here you are."

_That didn't take a second._

_That took 346 seconds, John._

_And my throat hurts._

"Sorry," John said, without trying to sound sorry at all, "I can't magically brew up a cup of tea in ten seconds."

Sherlock had propped himself up and took the teacup gingerly from John.

"Oh! Hang on!" John said quickly. Sherlock, who had raised the cup to his lips to blow on it, jumped slightly. "Let me get your temperature before you drink that!"

The look that John got in return was clearly one that spoke of hate and intolerance.

"It'll just take a second," John said. "I didn't think of it earlier. Sorry," he said, again, without sounding sorry. "Come on."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but opened his mouth.

"You are a lazy sod," John muttered, placing the thermometer under Sherlock's tongue.

Sherlock gave a small shrug.

The reading settled on thirty-eight point two.

Sherlock took a large drink of his tea. The look that crossed his face afterwards was so disgusted that John had to laugh.

"John," Sherlock rasped, scrabbling for his phone.

_This tastes terrible!_

_What did you do to it?_

_I don't take honey in my tea!_

John chuckled, leaning against the doorframe lazily. "I didn't ask you if you wanted honey; I just gave it to you. It'll help your throat."

_It's gross!_

John smiled (mentally deciding that it was hilarious that 'gross' was a part of sick Sherlock's vocabulary) and replied with "Just drink it".

_It's too sweet. I don't like sweet things._

"Says the man who takes sugar in his coffee."

_The bitterness of tea versus the bitterness of coffee is two very different things._

_I like my tea to be slightly bitter._

_It's not tea if it's not bitter._

"Sherlock," John said.

Sherlock looked up at him for a quiet moment. He then sniffed and took another drink, wincing at, most likely, the flavour.

"Thank you," John said, exiting the bedroom to collect his own cup of tea.

_John?_

John sighed.

_What? _he typed back, sipping at his own tea.

_Come back._

John felt his eyebrows hitch up. He slid his phone shut and, taking his cup of tea with him, returned to Sherlock's bedroom.

"What?" he asked again, vocally this time.

Sherlock stared up at him with eyes that, had they been on anyone else, John would have called puppy-dog eyes.

"Yes?" John asked, taking a sip of his tea. "Tell me what you need."

_I don't know._

John could hear the desperation behind the three little silent words. Sherlock sounded helpless. John _felt_ helpless, just then.

"Tell me what's wrong. Start from the top, and tell me what's wrong."

_Top meaning I should start at the ailments near the top of my body, aka my headache or top meaning I should start with the worst ailment, aka my throat? Or something different entirely?_

John sighed. "Just tell me your symptoms. I'll help if I can." He didn't say it aloud, but he preferred the snarky, sarcastic Sherlock the helpless, unsure one.

_My throat hurts. I can barely swallow._

_Tea helps._

John nodded slightly. "Warm liquids soothe the pain. Cold may numb it, and I picked up ice lollies like I said, if you want to give that a go later."

Sherlock nodded once in return.

_Head's pounding. Can barely think. I'm photophobic. Hyperacusis as well. Freezing cold. Sweating._

"That's the fever."

_Thank you for stating the obvious._

"Continue," John said.

_Nauseous. Vomiting._

"All typical symptoms," John said, dropping his phone onto the nightstand. He moved forward. "May I?"

Sherlock eyed him warily for a moment before nodding tightly.

John ran his fingers carefully over Sherlock's neck lymph nodes. Sherlock made a noise of surprise, leaning back slightly. "Sorry," John muttered, applying less pressure. "Lymph nodes are swollen all right..." John stood up. "You must be miserable." In retrospect, it was a very stupid thing to say.

Sherlock's glance told him as much.

John retreated to the bathroom and washed his hands thoroughly, making a mental note to grab some gloves from the first aid kit next time.

"Well," he said, stepping back into the bedroom, "they're all common symptoms of strep, to the best of my knowledge. Warm liquids will help your throat, alternating with cold, if you'd like to try that. You need to stay _hydrated_," he stressed. Sherlock looked down at his tea and took a sip. "You can have more paracetamol for the fever, a cold compress on your forehead will help."

John turned, crossing the room and drawing the curtains closed. "I can only close the curtains and turn off the light to help with your photophobia. I can't do anything about your hyperacusis. Plug your ears," he said, feeling very less-than-satisfactory for a doctor.

Sherlock was watching him again.

"_Drink_ your tea," John said, crossing the room again.

Sherlock took another drink.

"Chills and sweating are part of the fever. Can't do anything about that, either. You need to stay as cool as possible, obviously, but the antibiotics will help the fever, too."

_I know all of this._

John sighed. "Then, why did I just waste my breath?"

_I just want_

The text was unfinished, and John looked back at Sherlock. "What?" When he didn't receive a response, he pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation. "Sherlock, it shouldn't be this hard to tell me what you want."

_Help._

John stopped, his eyes lingering over the single-word text. It said infinitely more than Sherlock could have intended it to mean.

He looked back at Sherlock.

"Then I'll help," he said simply.

* * *

**Good, old Doctor Watson.**

**Thanks for the continued support! I love to hear your thoughts! Thanks!**


	6. Exhaustion Settles In

**Chapter Six**

By the time that Sherlock had fallen asleep at the end of a very long, patience-testing hour and a half, John was about to pass out from exhaustion then and there.

Sherlock was a terrible patient, and infinitely more fussy than any grown man had a right to be.

When John had tried to put a cold compress on Sherlock's forehead, Sherlock had simply dropped it onto the floor.

When John had tried to get at least a few blankets away from Sherlock, Sherlock had argued with his eyes and wrenched them closer.

When John had made Sherlock a second cup of tea, Sherlock had rolled over and ignored him.

When John had tried to wipe away the sweat on Sherlock's forehead, Sherlock had flinched and drawn the blankets over his head.

When John had took his temperature, Sherlock glared the entire time.

When John complained that Sherlock wasn't letting him take care of him, Sherlock complained that John wasn't helping at all.

When John had left the room, Sherlock had demanded that he come back.

It hadn't been until Sherlock had broken out 'please' did John finally march back into Sherlock's room, with yet another cup of tea and a dose of paracetamol. He handed both of them to Sherlock, mentally daring him to resist. Sherlock seemed to note the fight in John's eyes (or perhaps he was just feeling moroseful and repentant for his childish behaviour, but John didn't bet on that one) and swallowed the pills down with a large gulp of the tea that he hated.

Now, Sherlock had fallen asleep and John was desperate to go catch some shut-eye for himself. It was ridiculously late (okay, it was really only around eleven, but he was exhausted) and he carefully exited Sherlock's room, shutting the door behind him.

He grabbed his toothbrush and the toothpaste, quickly brushing his teeth. Ignoring the fact that he hadn't even showered (he'd decided that it wasn't worth it to risk waking up Sherlock), he quietly headed up the stairs.

* * *

John didn't wake up until eight-thirty and, upon remembering his patient downstairs, hastened to get out of bed.

The blankets were unyielding, however, and his legs got tangled; he suddenly found the floor rushing towards him and he hit the ground with a crash.

He lay completely still on the floor for a second, blinking harshly. "Ow," he said after a moment, pushing himself up. He rubbed his shoulder, frowning as he stumbled to the door.

Take the time to wake up, John, lest you end up falling on your face.

Sherlock was too demanding, even when he wasn't demanding, John realized, as he hurried down the stairs.

He stepped into the kitchen, stopping as he found Sherlock leaning against the countertop, looking tired even though his eyes were locked on John as he entered.

"What are you doing up?" John said, crossing the room. He immediately placed his hand against Sherlock's forehead, noting that Sherlock was drinking a cup of tea (that probably didn't contain honey). He was still warm, so the antibiotics hadn't helped a lot over the period of the night. "How's your throat?"

"Which question would you like me to answer first?" Sherlock replied hoarsely, taking another drink of his tea. The fact that he was speaking at all proved that his throat must be feeling a bit better... elsewise Sherlock was just feeling lazy and not wanting to type out a message.

John gave him a look, brushing by him to make himself a cup of tea.

"I made tea because you were still asleep. My throat stills hurts."

"Is it any better?"

Sherlock shrugged delicately.

"That doesn't tell me anything..." John muttered, grabbing a mug.

Sherlock didn't respond, and when John glanced at him, he noticed that Sherlock had set down his mug and had his phone in his hands again. Apparently, his throat wasn't feeling much better, if at all.

_It still hurts, although I suppose that it doesn't hurt AS badly. Nonetheless, I believe talking is less than beneficial, hence the lack of explanation. The better question is, did you purposefully hit the floor or did you get your foot tangled in the blankets and fall?_

John sighed after reading the message. "Why would I _purposefully_ hit the ground?"

_Vatican cameos?_

"That's a _bit_ different, Sherlock. There's not any snipers in my bedroom."

_Not YET._

"Don't get any ideas." He poured himself a cup of tea, adding the milk and sugar. "You need to be resting."

_I'm tired of resting._

"Well, you need to be resting. At least go sit down." He paused as he opened the refrigerator. "Are you hungry?"

Sherlock crossed the sitting room, flopping himself unceremoniously onto the couch. John waited for a reply, ignoring how the chill from the fridge was making him shiver.

_No._

John looked back to the fridge, sorting through the edible and non-edible. "Do you want yoghurt or an ice lolly?"

_I said I wasn't hungry._

"Yes, but you need to eat." He grabbed a package of yoghurt from the fridge. "It'll help your stomach when you take your antibiotic later." He handed the yoghurt off to Sherlock.

_It's plain, John._

_Did you buy strawberries?_

_I dip strawberries into plain yoghurt._

"Really? Are you going to eat strawberries, Sherlock? When you can't even talk?"

Sherlock seemed to ponder that for a moment before sighing. He took the spoon without another word... text... and peeled the top back.

John rolled his eyes and returned to the kitchen. He took another drink of his tea, contemplating breakfast, before walking to the freezer and pulling out the waffles.

A few minutes and two warm waffles smothered with whipped cream (that surprisingly hadn't been used in an experiment yet), cinnamon (that surprisingly hadn't been _entirely_ used in an experiment yet), and sugar (that they had plenty of) later, John pattered into the sitting room with what was left of his tea and the plate of waffles.

_You never make me waffles_ was the text that John got after a few minutes.

"You never ask for waffles."

_Why do I have to ask?_

"Because you normally don't eat."

_Unfair._

"How it is unfair?" John asked, brushing sugar from his shirt. "You don't eat. Plus, you're perfectly capable of making waffles yourself."

Sherlock gave a sort of huff, scraping his spoon against the bottom of his yoghurt container.

"Do you want anything else?"

_There's not anything else TO eat._

"Ice lolly." John took another bite of his waffle.

_Nice. Ice lollies when you're eating waffles._

"Oh, hell, I didn't even know you liked waffles! I'll make you waffles next time!"

_You're yelling at me._

"I'm not yelling at you."

_John, when one raises their voice, it is typically called yelling._

John sighed. "Look, I'm not yelling at you. I'm just tired."

_You just woke up._

_Oh._

_You didn't sleep well._

John pressed his face into his hands. "No," he muttered, rubbing his eyes. "No, I didn't."

_Why not?_

"Probably because you're sick..." John muttered.

_Why? I'm the sick one. I slept fine._

"Good to know. I'm glad you slept well," he said, dropping his hands, gripping his plate and mug and standing again."So, did you want anything else?"

_No._

"Fine. Later, then." John placed the dishes into the sink, making a mental note to wash them later, before Sherlock could conduct some hazardous experiment near them.

John returned to the sitting room, collapsing back into his chair. He grabbed the remote and flipped through the channels without much interest.

He was just about to turn the television off again when he caught a glimpse of a familiar face on the screen.

"Bond's on!" he exclaimed, punching the volume button. "Might not be a terrible day, after all."

Sherlock gave a sort of huff or groan or scoff sort of thing, but John didn't ask him about it. Sherlock tolerated and almost enjoyed Bond.

When John actually looked back at Sherlock some time later, he found the detective slumped against the back of the couch, his eyes closed and his breathing steady. John blinked, actually getting up to see if Sherlock had really fallen asleep.

He had.

Smiling faintly, John grabbed the blanket from the back of the chair and draped it over Sherlock's sleeping self.

Quietly, he returned to his chair and, turning the telly down a bit, drew his attention away from his sleeping flatmate.

* * *

**Hopefully this chapter worked out okay. I feel like I'm having a sort of breakdown right now, not because of the writing, but because of other things, but I'm trying to focus on the writing instead. That being said! These chapters are rather dull, I realize, but there isn't a whole lot that you can do for strep, so just trying to get some adorable almost-fluff. xD**

**Your thoughts are appreciated!**


	7. Doctor John H Watson

**Chapter Seven**

"Here."

John ripped the packaging off the grape ice lolly, offering it to Sherlock. Sherlock turned away.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock stared at the wall.

"Do you want to puke again when you take your antibiotics?"

Sherlock didn't respond.

"Because you didn't eat anything before, and you spent twenty minutes vomiting your guts up."

Sometimes, he had learned, it was just better to be blunt. Especially when it concerned something disgusting like vomiting and someone stubborn like Sherlock.

It worked.

Sherlock huffed and turned back to him, raising his hand and grabbing the melting lolly from John's fingers.

"Thank you," John muttered, licking the melted grape from his fingers. "It shouldn't be this difficult to get you to eat a lolly..."

_Why would this HELP? It's just frozen water._

"It'll help," he said, watching Sherlock take an experimental lick. He made a face immediately afterwards.

_It doesn't taste like a real grape, either._

"Of course it doesn't taste like a real grape," John muttered. "Artificial flavouring..." he continued, walking away from the couch.

Sherlock had woken up only a half hour ago, and John was making sure that Sherlock ate something else before he took his antibiotics. He had complained that his stomach had hurt before; the medicine said to that with food if it irritated the stomach, so Sherlock was going to eat something. Sherlock might think he was going to get by doing what he wanted while he was ill, but John was going to make damn sure that Sherlock did what he was supposed to.

(He was going to try, anyway.)

_How dull._

John decided that while Sherlock was having the semblance of his lunch, John might as well make something for himself. After a quick look-about in their cabinets, he decided that he may as well just heat up some soup. (Partially because he didn't trust much of what was in the cabinets, partially because he didn't want to have to listen to Sherlock complain about him eating. Again.)

After dumping the soup into a pot on the stove, John glanced up to watch Sherlock take a large chunk out of the ice lolly. He sighed, grabbing a spoon to stir idly at the mess of soup in the pot.

_Vegetable?_

"No. Chicken noodle."

_Dull._

"Maybe so." He glanced up again, in time to watch purple drip onto the sofa. "Sherlock! You're making a mess."

Sherlock gave an idle shrug.

John finished heating up his soup and joined Sherlock on the couch, handing the dose of his antibiotics off to him. "Water's there." He nodded to the bottle that Sherlock had gotten out earlier, leaning back against the cushions. "Are you feeling any better?" he asked, swallowing down a spoonful of hot soup.

Sherlock shrugged again and, having been playing with the lolly stick the past two minutes, placed it onto the coffee table and instead picked up the water bottle. He placed the pill in his mouth and chased it down with a large gulp of water.

_I'm fine._

"You're not fine..." John muttered, taking another spoonful of soup.

Sherlock didn't respond asides from leaning back more comfortably, closing his eyes.

"If you're tired, go to bed," John advised, fishing a piece of chicken out of the bowl to go with the noodles.

Sherlock shook his head.

_Stubborn idiot_, John wanted to say, but he kept his mouth shut _because_ he was a doctor and doctors were compassionate and caring. Even if their patient was Sherlock Holmes.

He, however, _did_ complain, not ten minutes later, when Sherlock's head suddenly dropped directly into his lap.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock didn't respond. His eyes were closed and his breathing even as John stared awkwardly at the mop of black curls splayed out haphazardly, realizing that he'd fallen asleep again.

"I told you to go to bed," he said, although lowering his voice. He knew that if he wasn't sitting here, Sherlock would have simply plopped onto the couch cushions and slept like that. Of course, that knowledge didn't make it any less awkward.

He sat there awkwardly for another moment, wondering what to do now, before eventually settling on- carefully- manoeuvring the detective so John could stand, letting Sherlock stretch out across the couch with a much more suitable pillow underneath his head.

Sherlock, thankfully, did not wake up. John did not want to be the one to explain that Sherlock had just fallen asleep to use him as a pillow. It was already awkward enough.

John took his bowl to the sink. He noted the time and, deciding that it was by far past time to get a shower (the Bond marathon had stretched on), he set off for the bathroom.

* * *

He watched Sherlock's condition deteriorate throughout the period of two hours.

Sherlock had already been awake by the time that John had finished his shower. He had claimed that it had been an impromptu power nap and John simply snorted, tightening his dressing gown around him before nipping upstairs to get dressed.

When he had returned, Sherlock hadn't moved and was still staring at the ceiling, so John took it as a sign that he still didn't feel well and settled into reading the paper for entertainment.

When that had bored him, he had picked up his laptop and began typing out a blog that explained the latest developments in life: aka, Sherlock's illness. As with typical doctor-patient confidentiality, he didn't disclose the full details of the illness, only mentioning that Sherlock was, for once, under the weather.

He went on to type about other potentially boring things, such as the limited selection of ice lollies at the supermarket and the wonderful development of the film age that was Bond.

This was what happened when they didn't have a case. He talked about life. The boring life behind the exciting cases, and it was just that: boring.

Of course, with Sherlock Holmes as a patient, he couldn't stay bored.

It was about this time that he noticed Sherlock had moved, was now curled up in the corner of the couch, hugging his knees to his chest. He had gotten paler and John could see the tips of his hair trembling.

John, not expecting Sherlock to admit that something was wrong, decided to just let it go and monitor his condition.

It did not get any better.

At one point, John watched Sherlock's eyes flutter closed, his entire body seeming to pause. John suspected that he was holding his breath.

He closed his laptop, looking at Sherlock. "Okay, what's wrong?"

Sherlock opened his eyes. "Nothing."

"Oh, so you're talking now," John said. "I highly doubt that it's because your throat feels better. The way I see it is that you don't want to bother unwrapping your arms from around your knees to actually _move_ and pick up your phone. So, what is the problem?"

"It's just my stomach," Sherlock grumbled, closing his eyes again.

"Sherlock, you're pale as a ghost."

He didn't respond.

"Does it hurt, or is the queasy feeling again?"

"Both," Sherlock replied without opening his eyes.

John placed his laptop on the floor, crossing the room. He pressed his hand against Sherlock's forehead, frowning at the increase of temperature.

"You're warm... I need to take your temperature."

"I'm fine," Sherlock rasped, tightening his grip around his knees.

"Don't be ridiculous. It's obvious that you're miserable! You should be sleeping!" John complained, turning away from him and heading for the bathroom. "You're going to bloody get your fever up high and then it's going to be a whole new battle..." he muttered, under his breath, as he disinfected the thermometer and dried it off.

He returned to Sherlock, handing him the thermometer. Sherlock didn't argue (which frightened John more than he would let on) and slipped it under his tongue.

John left his side again, walking back to the bathroom to grab a few cloths.

It was time to battle this illness once and for all, whether Sherlock wanted to cooperate or not.

* * *

**John's finally had enough of watching Sherlock suffer. Meanwhile, Sherlock's so miserable that he's unwilling to actually move. Oh, the boys at 221B get into so much trouble.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	8. Holmesian Sickness and Watsonian Support

**Chapter Eight**

"Get in bed."

"No."

"Get in bed."

"I don't want to."

"_Get_ in _bed_."

"No."

"Don't make me make you."

_You couldn't make me if you tried._

"Sherlock, you're forgetting, I was a soldier."

_I didn't forget. It simply doesn't matter._

"I will pick you up and _put_ you to bed."

_You can't._

"The fact that you stopped arguing verbally already seems to be leaning this argument in my direction."

_No, it simply means that I've grown tired of arguing._

"You're still arguing," John pointed out. "Now get in bed."

Sherlock sighed, leaning heavily against the wall.

"Okay," John said simply, moving towards Sherlock.

Sherlock nearly fell in his haste to move away.

"See? You _do_ think I could pick you up!" John announced. "Get in bed!"

Sherlock sighed slightly, slinking towards his bed.

_You are irritating, John. I do not want to sleep._

"You need to, and you will." After Sherlock crawled lazily into bed, John gripped the duvet and drew it over Sherlock's torso. "And I need you to drink something, so don't get any ideas."

Sherlock only sighed heavily, pushing John's hands away.

_Don't mollycoddle me, John._

"No, not mollycoddling you. Doctoring you," John replied, not letting himself be deterred. "Do you want tea, water, orange juice...?"

_Nothing._

"Sherlock," John said, in what he hoped was a warning tone.

Sherlock groaned, turning to face him.

_You're being so obnoxious, John._

John let the insult slide, smiling pleasantly. "I am, and I will be, until you drink something. The last thing you need is to get dehydrated, _and_," he added quickly, seeing that Sherlock was about to argue, "you've been vomiting and sweating profusely, so don't tell me that you can't be dehydrated. Now, what do you want to drink?" he said, prominently saying the question again.

"Tea..." Sherlock muttered, dropping his phone dejectedly. He closed his eyes.

"Good. Fine," John said, walking back into the bathroom.

He ran one of the compresses he'd gotten out earlier under the cold water, wringing it out afterwards. He turned the tap off and returned to the bedroom.

"Turn over."

"What...?"

John placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, gently turning the detective onto his back. He then flopped the compress onto Sherlock's forehead- a little less gracefully than he normally would have done- before leaving the room again.

He made tea without a single complaint to himself, not even adding honey to this batch before he returned to Sherlock's room.

"Here. No honey. Your favourite."

Sherlock opened his eyes, blinking up at John in seemed like surprise.

"Yeah, I decided to lay off the honey bit for awhile. Since you're semi-cooperating." He handed the cup of tea off to Sherlock. "Good things come to those who work with their doctor," he muttered, half-teasingly.

Sherlock hummed in reply, taking a small sip of his tea.

"And then you're going to go to sleep. Oh!" He snapped his fingers, drawing forth a glance from the detective. "Medicine."

He sought the bottle of paracetamol, upending it to dump the last two pills into his hand.

"Great. Another Tesco run," he muttered, handing the pills to Sherlock. "Do you want anything else when I go out? I'll need to pick up some more food, if you want anything besides yoghurt and ice lollies."

Sherlock shrugged.

"Soup?"

Sherlock shrugged again. John took this to be a 'sure'.

"Chicken noodle?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Tomato?"

Sherlock seemed to consider this before nodding.

"Okay... Er, ice cream?" John asked, trying to think of foods that wouldn't be torture on Sherlock's throat.

Sherlock made a face, but shrugged.

"Vanilla? Chocolate?"

Sherlock shrugged again.

"Are you going to do anything except shrug?" John muttered, faintly exasperated.

Sherlock shook his head.

John sighed heavily.

_Look, just get me whatever you see fit. You're the doctor, aren't you?_

"Yeah, but will you eat it?"

_Maybe. And if I don't, you will._

"Oh, yeah," John muttered, peering into Sherlock's mug to find it empty. He took it from him. "Now, you need to lay down," he said, setting the cup on the bedside table.

To his credit, Sherlock did not complain about it, but simply shifted into a more comfortable position and didn't blink as John replaced the cold compress.

"I assume the bout of pain with your stomach is better?"

"A bit," Sherlock mumbled, closing his eyes.

"Good," John said, pressing his fingers against Sherlock's throat gingerly. Sherlock flinched from the initial contact, but didn't say anything, only now watching him with wary eyes. "No change there. It should start feeling better tomorrow morning."

Sherlock didn't respond, asides from closing his eyes again.

"I'm popping out to Tesco's again. We're out of paracetamol and I'll pick up something else for you to eat while you're ill."

Sherlock merely waved a hand dismissively. John took it as a positive reaction and headed for the door.

"Goodnight, Sherlock," he murmured (even though it was just past noon), and quietly closed the door.

John sighed heavily when he was safely in the hallway. Great that Sherlock was finally cooperating (somewhat), but he was still exhausted from fighting with him. He was just glad that he knew, shortly, Sherlock would be on the mend and he could at least carry on a proper conversation with the man without having to rely on texts.

He stepped into his shoes and fought with the laces for a few seconds before heading downstairs. He grabbed his coat and stepped outside into the cold.

He shivered. It was unseasonably chilly for this time of year.

Thankfully, he hailed a cab rather quickly and was soon on his way to Tesco. The cab ride was dull and boring and all things generally case-deprived Sherlock, and John wasn't exactly thrilled to be leaving Sherlock at home yet again. If he had _observed_ the paracetamol, he thought bitterly, he wouldn't have this problem.

The cab pulled up outside of Tesco and he paid the fare, hurrying quickly inside. He'd just grab what he needed and leave... even though he still wasn't for sure what he was buying.

He immediately grabbed a new bottle of paracetamol, and then wandered to the dairy section to grab more yoghurt. He made a note to grab some strawberries- if Sherlock's throat didn't improve, John would eat them, no complaints- when he passed the produce. He wandered down the frozen foods, wondering briefly what kind of ice cream to purchase. He eventually settled on Neapolitan; Sherlock couldn't complain about John picking up the wrong flavour when he had three to choose from. He continued around to grab a few cans of soup and then the strawberries, only deviating for a moment to grab a couple packages of crisps and a tin of biscuits. He ended the shopping trip with a canister of peppermint tea and ginger ale, just in case Sherlock's stomach continued to react to the medicine.

He had just joined the queue to check out when his phone vibrated. He jumped before realizing that it was his phone, ignoring the thrill of nerves as he checked the message screen.

_John_

John had realized that his name was obviously to be meant as a plea for help, but it didn't help John figure out what was wrong by reading his own name.

_What's wrong?_

he texted back hurriedly, looping his arm through the handles of the shopping basket so he could text with both hands.

He didn't receive a response immediately, which made him worry even more, but he was determined to not drop everything and run home. He still had the cab ride ahead of him, anyway, so running out of Tesco like a madman would not help.

He was just unloading his items onto the checkout counter when his phone went off. He, blatantly ignoring the cashier, drew the new message open.

_Can't stp vomiting_

The deterioration of the grammar made his heart beat a little fast in his chest and he smiled a fleeting smile at the clerk that said, clearly, to hurry the hell up.

_How long have you been vomiting?_

_15 min._

"_Excuse_ me," the cashier said.

John looked up. "What?" Looking unamused, the clerk repeated his total. "Oh, yeah, right," John muttered, pulling out the money and handing it over. He then turned his attention back to his phone.

_Is it continuous?_

_not entirely_

John grabbed the change and the shopping bags, high-tailing it outside.

_I'm on my way. Are you in the bathroom?_

_yes_

_Get some water and take small sips of it. Chances are that you'll vomit it back up, but you need to do it_, he typed, in between hailing down a cab. "221B Baker Street," he said to the cabbie, hearing the urgency in his voice. _This_ was exactly why he hadn't wanted to leave Sherlock at home, not that there was much that could be done for vomiting.

When he didn't receive a response, he sent another message.

_Take deep breaths and try to stay calm. Trembling is just going to irritate your stomach further, if you're shivering enough._

He still didn't receive a response and he waited until he was a few minutes from Baker Street before sending yet another message.

_Are you okay?_

_yed. nosebleed_

John clenched his teeth together, looking anxiously to the window. At this rate, Sherlock was going to end up unconscious by some device or design if he didn't get home soon.

Thankfully, Baker Street was within sight and John all but threw the money at the cabbie, ordering him to keep the change as he fumbled for his keys. He scrambled out of the cab and hastened to unlock the door, barely keeping enough presence of mind about him to flip the lock again when inside. (Just what they needed- some criminal taking advantage of an unlocked door while Sherlock was ill.)

John took the stairs two at a time, dumping the bags onto the floor as he hurried back to the bathroom.

"Shit."

It was the first eloquent word out of his mouth as he walked in on Sherlock vomiting profusely. His dark hair was sticking to his face and he was deathly pale, the blood pouring from his nose a terrifying contrast.

John hurried forward and grabbed the spare compress from before, pressing it to Sherlock's nose when the detective had stopped vomiting. Sherlock replaced John's hand with his own weakly, keeping it pressed there.

He looked miserable. Worse than miserable.

John flinched when, a moment later, Sherlock lunged for the toilet again. He placed his fingertips on Sherlock's shoulder slightly, feeling each wave of retching and the tremors shaking Sherlock's body.

"Is it slacking off any?" he asked weakly, when Sherlock had slumped back against the wall and pressed the cloth to his nose again.

Sherlock waved his free hand in a so-so sort of fashion.

John picked up the mug from the floor and, noting the blood on it, ran it under the tap for a moment before filling it up with fresh water

"Drink. You're getting severely dehydrated."

Sherlock's hands were shaking so badly that John didn't even let go of the mug for fear that Sherlock would spill it or drop the mug. Not that the bathroom wasn't a mess already- there was blood on Sherlock, the toilet, and the floor. Clearly, pressing tissue to his bleeding nose hadn't been of utmost importance earlier.

"I'm going to make you some peppermint tea. Keep that against your nose," he said, returning to the kitchen.

Good that he'd decided to pick up something for an upset stomach, he thought, hurriedly putting the kettle on as he heard Sherlock vomiting again.

This was going to have to stop. Sherlock said that it was slacking off, so John hated to imagine how it had been before. Now, it was every few minutes for about ten, twenty seconds. That was still horrible, compared with the alternative of vomiting once in an hour. At least Sherlock was cooperating and drinking when he wasn't vomiting, although it wasn't staying down.

If this didn't stop, he was going to have to get him to a hospital and Sherlock would never forgive him for that.

He rinsed the teapot out before dumping the leaves in, adding the water afterwards.

He hurried back to the bathroom.

"How's your nose?" he asked, crouching next to Sherlock. He took the cloth from Sherlock's nose, pleased to find that the bleeding had almost stopped.

Sherlock didn't so much as open his eyes during this exchange, much less respond.

"Sherlock?"

John picked up Sherlock's hand, lightly pressing his fingers against his wrist to find his pulse. It was beating out of control.

"Okay," John muttered, more to himself, since Sherlock wasn't speaking. "You need to go back to bed. Are you feeling any better?" No response. "You _need_ to get in bed."

John sighed, pressing Sherlock's hand back to the compress against his nose before standing. He walked back to the kitchen, pouring a cup of tea. By all rights, he should have let it cool more, but he had purposefully not made the water boiling. Less strong tea, true, but peppermint worked for stomach problems.

He walked back to the bathroom, blowing on the tea the entire while.

"Listen, drink some of this, and if you don't vomit it up, you are going back to bed."

Sherlock opened his eyes blearily.

"It's peppermint tea. It'll help your stomach. You need to keep something down, or else I'm going to have to take you to A&E."

Sherlock frowned slightly, reaching for the mug. John didn't immediately let go of it, but when he felt that Sherlock wouldn't drop it, let him hold it on his own.

His nose had stopped bleeding as this point, although there was dried blood all over the place. John picked up the compress and ran it under the water, feeling slightly nauseous when the water ran red.

He wasn't squeamish. But this was _Sherlock's_ blood...

He ran it under the water a few more times, wringing it out. He returned to Sherlock, wiping the blood from his face. Sherlock's eyes were distant, staring at the mug in his hands. John didn't comment; he knew that if Sherlock wasn't so sick, he'd be complaining and demanding John to leave him alone. Right now, it just looked like Sherlock was about to pass out.

He wiped away the blood from Sherlock's face, cleaning up the floor afterwards. He'd give the whole bathroom a good bleaching later on- it really was necessary- but first, he was going to get Sherlock back in bed.

"Has your stomach settled?" he asked, stopping the drain and dropping the bloody compress into the cold water. He wiped his hands, looking back at Sherlock.

Sherlock gave a nearly nonexistent nod.

"Good. Back to bed," John muttered. "Can you walk?"

Sherlock didn't respond, and John didn't think he would have said 'no' if he could have.

"Okay." He took the mug from Sherlock. "Brace yourself." He crouched next to his again, slipping his arms under Sherlock's. He hauled him to his feet, amidst a small protest from the detective, waiting for Sherlock to find his feet. "One foot in front of the other, come on..."

Painstakingly, and with one-thirds carrying him, one-thirds dragging him, and one-thirds him walking on his own, John managed to get Sherlock back to the bedroom and in bed.

John replaced the mug of tea into Sherlock's hands, grabbing a couple bottles of water to sit on Sherlock's nightstand.

"You're going to need to keep drinking," John said. "The vomiting is a symptom of strep throat in itself, but the medication is wreaking havoc on your stomach, too, so that's not helping. Liquids are the best thing right now. In awhile, if you keep liquids down, we'll move onto something cool, like the ice cream-" He paused, remembering the ice cream was still sitting in the bag on the sitting room floor. "If you'd like," he finished lamely, exiting the room and scooping the shopping bags off the floor.

He quickly placed everything in its proper place before returning to Sherlock's bedroom.

Sherlock was still sipping at the tea, but he wasn't shaking as badly as he had been. That was a good sign.

John, watching him unhappily, took a seat on the edge of the bed.

* * *

**This chapter is much, _much_ longer than I intended it to be. Oh well. More for John to deal with.**

**Thanks!**


	9. Sentiment

**Chapter Nine**

"John... John?"

John waved the voice away, trying to go back to sleep.

"John..."

There was pressure on his shoulder, shaking him awake.

"Leave me alone..." he slurred, reaching up and shoving the hand off his shoulder.

He just wanted to get some sleep, honestly, more sleep than he had been getting. It felt like he hadn't been sleeping enough to keep a gnat alive, let alone himself. Maybe that was just altered perception, because he had been trying so hard to take care of Sherlock, but he felt so _drained_. Due to this, he wanted to curl up under the blankets and fall back asleep.

It took him a few silent seconds to realize that he didn't _have_ blankets, that he wasn't in bed at all.

John opened his eyes slowly.

He was sitting on the hardwood floor in Sherlock's bedroom, slumped back against the consulting detective's bed.

"Oh, hell..." he muttered, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. His back hurt and his neck was stiff and one of his legs were asleep. "I fell asleep," he muttered, straightening. He groaned as his back popped and cracked, and mentally making a note that he was getting to old for such things, hauled himself off the floor.

Sherlock was sitting up in bed, watching him.

"Sorry," John muttered, reaching over and pressing his hand against Sherlock's forehead. "Tired."

"Still?" Sherlock prompted.

John smiled at being able to hear Sherlock's voice and, noting the strength in it, deduced that his friend must be feeling a _little _better.

"Doctors don't sleep well when they're attached to their patients," John said calmly, removing his hand. "You're still warm, but it seems to have gone down. I'll get it with the thermometer in a sec..." he trailed off, yawning widely.

Sherlock stared at him for a dull moment before he, too, yawned, clumsily dislodging his fingers from the blankets to cover his mouth.

"Did you just wake up?" he asked, heading for the bathroom.

"Mhmm..."

John nodded absently. "Right. Gimme a sec."

He closed himself off into the bathroom, noting that it was just past five o' clock. Their sleeping schedules were utterly ruined, although they were both tired enough to sleep through the night.

John sighed heavily. Nothing was ever normal.

He gave himself a quick once-over before returning to Sherlock's room. The detective was just dropping the thermometer onto his nightstand.

"Thirty eight."

"And your throat feels better?"

Sherlock nodded. "Slightly. I can talk without the pain being excruciating."

"Well, I wouldn't push it. Did you want something to eat?"

"If possible."

"Soup?"

"Sounds good."

"'kay," John replied absently, turning for the door. It was only by chance that he noticed Sherlock struggling to get out of bed. "What are you doing? Just because you feel better doesn't mean you need to be up!"

"I'm going to the toilet," Sherlock replied in a monotone, raising his gaze to meet John's. "And then I'm going to follow you to the sitting room. Is that alright, _doctor_?"

John blinked and turned back around, continuing down the hall. "It's fine."

Sherlock stumbled through the kitchen a few moments later, dragging his sheet with him. John barely spared him a glance, although he did question Sherlock if he was wearing clothes. Sherlock replied in the affirmative, although when Sherlock flopped onto the couch, John could see that the detective wasn't wearing a shirt. He decided to ignore it and instead focussed on the tomato soup.

"I'm going to give you some peppermint tea, too, just in case," John said, as he put the kettle on to boil. He honestly didn't think the nausea would affect Sherlock again- that seemed to be a side-effect of the medication, immediately _after_ the medication- but it couldn't hurt. Besides, Sherlock hadn't protested the peppermint tea before, so John considered it a success.

"Fine," Sherlock replied absently, stretching his legs out over the end of the couch. John could now see that Sherlock was, at least, wearing trousers. That was probably a miracle in itself, and probably only because Sherlock had fallen asleep in his pyjama trousers.

When dinner had finished, John grabbed a tray and piled everything onto it, carrying it into the sitting room.

"If you keep this down, you can have ice cream or something. Help your throat out." He sat the tray down on the the coffee table as Sherlock hauled himself into a sitting position.

John had poured himself a bowl of soup from the portion and, whilst the combination wasn't particularly his favourite, made himself a grilled cheese sandwich to go with it.

"Your nausea's stopped, then?"

"For now," Sherlock replied, grumbling over his soup.

"Headache?"

"Gone."

"Sensitivity?"

Sherlock shrugged slightly, raising his spoon to his lips. "It's better," he mumbled before placing the spoon in his mouth.

"Good." John dipped his sandwich absently, taking a thoughtful bite. "Still getting chilled and sweating, respectively?"

"I'm just cold now..."

"You could put on a shirt," John suggested.

"I just took the other one off. It had blood on it."

"Oh, yeah..." John shrugged. "Well, put on another one."

Sherlock just sighed, taking a drink of his tea.

"I'll go get you one..." John muttered, setting his bowl down. He took his sandwich and walked back to Sherlock's room yet again, rummaging through the drawers. He grabbed a navy blue tee that seemed to have seen better days before returning to the sitting room. "Here." He flopped the shirt down on the couch next to Sherlock, picking up his own bowl once again.

Sherlock only grunted in reply, raising the bowl to his lips to drink the rest of his soup.

John watched him in amusement, drawing the last of his sandwich through the soup idly. It was only after Sherlock had struggled with his shirt for a moment, finally getting it on, before looking at John, and John realized that he was still watching him. He resisted the urge to laugh at himself and took the final bite of his- soggy- grilled cheese.

"What are you looking at?" Sherlock mumbled, drawing the sheet back over his shoulders. His question lacked the usual conviction it did, and it was the reminder that John needed that Sherlock was still ill.

"Glad you're getting better," was all John said in reply, drinking the last of his soup. "Maybe I can sleep easy."

"I still don't understand why you can't sleep when _I'm_ sick," Sherlock muttered, settling back into the couch cushions.

"Sentiment," John supplied.

"Sentiment..." Sherlock echoed, closing his eyes.

John smiled faintly at the sick consulting detective.

* * *

**Filler fluff! And Sherlock can _finally_ talk again. After nine chapters. The road to recovery doesn't appear to be quite so steep anymore, now, does it? Antibiotics: terrible on the stomach but fast-acting on the illness.**

**On another note, I finally got my copy of _Sherlock: The Casebook_. Sherlock's [hidden] sticky note on the last page literally made me tear up. Not at all remotely sad, not at all remotely emotional, but our poor, dear John... I miss the series.**

**Thanks!**


	10. The Best Doctor I Could Ask For

**Chapter Ten**

The morning arrived on a much better note than the previous mornings had. John slept until nine and, upon walking downstairs, found Sherlock awake and staring blankly at the television screen.

"Morning," John greeted.

Sherlock gave a sort of huff in response, not looking up from the television.

"What are you watching?"

"Not watching it."

"Okay, what is on the telly, that you happen to be staring at but not watching?" John asked with mild humour. It was clear that Sherlock was feeling better; or else he was feeling so terrible that he was zoning out unconsciously, but John didn't bet on that. Sherlock didn't do much unconsciously, so, while Sherlock was clearly off in another world, John assumed that he was simply thinking.

"Something 'book'. Book, the Book, the Note_-_Notebook," Sherlock mumbled, not looking up.

"You're watching _The Notebook_?" John asked incredulously, letting his gaze deviate to the television again.

"I'm not watching it," Sherlock repeated, sounding annoyed. "It started awhile ago, the remote is on the other side of the room and I couldn't be bothered to get it," Sherlock said stubbornly, finally looking at John.

"You're feeling better," John remarked.

"What? Oh, yeah. Better."

"Symptoms?" John inquired, crossing the room and placing his hand against Sherlock's forehead. He was pleased to find that his fever seemed to be very low-grade, if not nonexistant.

Sherlock didn't respond, not even seeming to notice as John placed his hand on his forehead.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyes snapped to John. "What?" he asked again, very clearly annoyed now. "My throat feels strange, but it doesn't hurt."

"What do you mean, 'strange'?"

Sherlock shrugged a bit, his eyes flickering back to the television. "John, what is this heinous programme? It's a _romance_," he complained.

"Yes, well, I didn't turn it on," John muttered. "Now, what do you mean by 'strange'?"

"Like a sort of gag-inducing sensation."

"Like something's stuck in your throat?"

"Essentially."

"Okay. That's part of the strep, too, although I imagine it's a step in the right direction. No pain?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Not really. I'm hungry."

John sighed. "What would you like?" he asked, slinking to the kitchen.

"Toast will do."

"Sherlock..." John said, planning on giving Sherlock a lecture on how he needed to eat while he was on medication, but Sherlock sensed it ahead of time.

"Omelette, then."

"Good."

John worked on the omelettes (he decided that an omelette sounded good, so why shouldn't he make one for himself?) for awhile in silence, before Sherlock's tone broke the silence over the movie playing in the sitting room.

"John..."

"If you don't want to watch it, don't."

"I'm _aware_ of it now; I can't tune it out and I need to think!" Sherlock complained.

"If you don't want to watch it, turn it off," John clarified. "And, no, I'm not getting you the remote. You're no longer incapacitated and you said you felt better. Do it yourself." John removed the omelettes from the stove, placing them on two different plates.

John walked back into the room as the two characters on the movie declared their undying love for each other. John literally heard Sherlock scoff.

Laughing, John handed over a plate to Sherlock. "So, what was it that you were so busy thinking about that you managed to block out half of _The Notebook_?"

Sherlock didn't respond. John wasn't particularly surprised.

John sank into his chair (after grabbing the remote), quickly changing the channel. He settled on the morning news, only half listening to it as he ate his breakfast.

"Why do you do this?"

John glanced up as he took a bite of his omelette. "What?"

"Doctor," Sherlock replied.

John blinked. "Why am I a doctor?"

"Yes."

"Why are you a consulting detective?" John retorted, although he was only joking. He wasn't sure how to answer the question that Sherlock had posed to him. He was a doctor because-

"I'm good at the profession and I enjoy what I do," Sherlock said, giving John a response.

"There you go," John said. "That's why I'm a doctor, too."

"But how can you _enjoy_ taking care of snivelling, sick people? _Healthy_ people are annoying as it is, not to menion the crying that they do when they're sick."

"Not everybody snivels when they're sick," John pointed out, giving Sherlock a glance.

Sherlock snorted, reaching for his cup of tea from- assumingly- earlier.

"Besides, I like helping people," John continued. Sherlock rolled his eyes pointedly, unable to speak as he was taking a drink of tea. "No, I do, Sherlock. Not everyone wants to be an arrogant sod like you."

Sherlock smirked, setting his mug down. "Little do you know, John, that everybody _should_ want to be like me."

"Wow. Pompous in our sickness, aren't we?" John asked, smiling as he looked back to his omelette.

"Honestly, John, I'm always pompous."

"_Tell_ me about it," John muttered.

John had nearly finished his omelette before Sherlock spoke again, and when he did, John nearly choked.

"You're right. You are good at being a doctor."

John fumbled for his glass of orange juice, taking a drink. "_What_?"

Sherlock shot him a distasteful look, shuffling his sheet closer to him.

"Did you just pay me a compliment?" John asked in disbelief, staring at the consulting detective.

Sherlock had resolutely looked back to the news.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't look back, but John couldn't help himself from grinning. His smile lasted through the rest of his omelette, his orange juice, and the trip to the kitchen to deposit his dishes into the sink.

John suspected that this was Sherlock's way of saying thank you without actually having to say those two, simple words. Despite the fact that Sherlock couldn't seem to bring himself to actually express gratitude, John took this as a major accomplishment and a serious compliment.

"John, stop making that ridiculous face," Sherlock muttered as John sank back into his chair.

John's smile gave way to laughter.

"Honestly..." Sherlock muttered, sinking lower in his chair. He looked, vaguely, uncomfortable.

"Sherlock, I'm just going to say this, and I'm kind of going out on a limb here, but, you're welcome."

Sherlock frowned. "I never said 'thank you'."

"Uh huh," John murmured, smiling to himself.

"I didn't!"

John only grabbed the remote and set to flipping through channels as a distraction from Sherlock's affronted face.

His flatmate might try to seem like he was the most uncaring sod in the world, and he might actually pull that act off most of the time, but John knew better. If only for an instant, one teeny, tiny _instant_, Sherlock could be normal. Sherlock could be _sentimental_.

John also knew that Sherlock was only ever _'sentimental'_ around him. He only ever acted _human_ around him.

And _that_ was the biggest compliment that John knew he could ever receive.

* * *

_**Silent Night**_** reaches it's conclusion here! I want to thank you all for the favs, the follows, and the reviews. Your wonderful thoughts are... wonderful, obviously, and I appreciate each and every review!**

**THANK YOU!**

**[P.S. My penname is going to change again- this is only important for those who follow me- so, yeah, just to let you know!]**


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